In September 2022, images of young men crossing the border in the Georgian mountains struck Patric Chiha, the director of A Russian Winter. They were fleeing the Russian regime, some on foot, others by bike or car. “While these men were experiencing a situation unimaginable to me,” he recalls, “their faces seemed to say a lot about the fragility and violence of our world. Where are we headed?” 

From the pictures, he sensed that the peace people in the West have been enjoying for some time is very fragile since the full-scale invasion of Ukraine. And he chose to turn his camera on those who had left their country because they refused to bow to the regime. In their stories, in the questions that haunted them, he recognised something that felt unnervingly close to his own fears.

Istanbul is where Chiha met young Russians who had fled. He encountered people from vastly different backgrounds: some were deeply politically engaged, others less so; some were wanted by the authorities, others not. Margarita, who was the interpreter and companion of Chiha at the time, and owned strong unspoken charisma, composed of intelligence, strength, and sensitivity, which triggered his interest in filming her as the central figure. “We talked a lot. Then, one day, it became obvious: I wanted to film her. I can’t explain why.” The other protagonists are her friends. They are a group of people with distinct stories and characteristics centred around Margarita.

In the film, the protagonists were given the utmost respect: everything they chose to say and show is in the film; everything else remains theirs. To create and capture the freedom of expression, his documentaries are highly improvised and usually take several months to complete the shooting in stages. Therefore, they require months of editing. In the editing room, he always tries to give shape to the lives and questions of the people he filmed. 

“These people had no choice but to flee. Some tried to resist the regime, but they didn’t succeed. In their comfortable lives in Moscow, they weren’t prepared for the brutality of the system. To keep living, they had to give up their country, their identity, their lives.” Now, in Paris or Istanbul, they live on the margins, paralysed by powerlessness, doubt, guilt, and perhaps shame. During the filming, questions were wrestled again and again: Was it right to flee and save one’s life, or should they have stayed to fight the regime? Where could they be most useful—here or there? What role do they play in what is happening? Are they victims, or do they bear responsibility? With all those weighty concerns, filming may have enabled them to put complex, difficult questions into words.

In his words, what cinema offers him is the chance to see what otherwise remains invisible. And sometimes, to do that, he has to step away from his own world. “I make films because I don’t know. I search, I try to see more clearly, or at least learn to formulate questions.” For him, filming is a way of opening a space for reflection: for himself, and for whoever watches.

Some have wondered why he chose not to film in Ukraine, where people are suffering more visibly and violently. He understands that the question might even be off-putting. He has friends in Ukraine, and he has spent time there. It is without a doubt that he admires their strength, their fierce, unwavering determination. In April 2024, he was in Kyiv for a festival, leading a workshop for young filmmakers. He believes they are the ones who need to tell their own stories.

Everything, he reflects, is in constant motion. That is the struggle and the beauty of documentary, and sometimes of life itself. However, when it comes to funding, he adds, documentaries have become increasingly difficult to raise, regardless of topics nowadays.

Politics can never be interpreted from a singular angle, and film can never offer a definitive answer. In the torrent of war, the voices of ordinary people have voices are drowned out by the shelling. If anguish cannot be spoken, one cannot simply go on living as if nothing has happened. This is a melancholy that hangs over everyone. That’s when the simple act of documenting and listening becomes the most precious thing. Whether these voices will be heard, and what might come of it, no one knows. But at least they are not buried beneath the shelling. That is enough.

Written and interviewed by Jane Wei

Featured image © ELSA OKAZAKI

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